


Fracture

by decayingIncentive



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Allusions to Violence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, kinda??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7214929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decayingIncentive/pseuds/decayingIncentive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomorrow would be a different story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fracture

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [ tumblr ](http://sparklesthewarlock.tumblr.com/)

Kneeling on the cold floor of a dingy bathroom in a dingy motel room in the middle of nowhere, Jace came to the conclusion that he had never felt pain like this before.

 

It wasn’t as if he wasn’t plenty accustomed to bruises and blood and broken bones, that wasn’t it. But the monotone whirring of the air conditioning and the blunt edges of the tiles digging into his knees, the muffled sounds of a TV from the room above his, they made his gut lurch, his fingers dig into the soft flesh of his palms. He took a deep breath, two, three, and uncurled his fists, gripped the sink in front of him, leaving behind red prints as he dragged himself upward. The mirror stared right back at him, as if in judgement.

He looked like hell. And that was saying something, seeing as he usually looked nothing less than absolutely perfect. Clumps of blonde hair, sticking together like straw, were falling into his face. He brushed them away and smeared blood on his forehead. It stood in stark contrast to the pallid stretch of skin over bone, almost rubbery in its feel. There was blood on his lips, too; the copper taste felt familiar by now, though. Grounding, almost.

Jace looked at his hands, the busted, bleeding knuckles, and spat into the sink. It came away red, filled with spit bubbles, and it was revolting. Much like the dark under his fingernails, the shadows under his eyes, the scrapes and contusions on his arms and hidden below his clothes.

You’re a mess, thought Jace to himself, and turned the tap on.

-

Someone was knocking on the door.

Jace groaned from his position on the bathroom tiles - now a bit warmer than they had been, unluckily - and contemplated whether to get up or not. What were the chances he’d get his ass handed by whoever was looking for him? He’d made sure his father wouldn’t know where he was, but the downside of picking fights with random people was that you never knew who had contacts, or was simply too determined to follow you home. He’d been through this before.

So all he did was shift a little and press his cheek harder against the floor. The knocking ebbed away after a minute or two; he almost thought he could get a nap in when it started again.

“Jace? I know you’re in there, open up already!” The voice, barely muffled from beyond the flimsy excuse for a door and walls, was masculine, but frightened - high-pitched and trying to be imposing where it clearly wasn’t. It hurt Jace more than anything else had that day.

“Jace!” Slowly, the knocking started up again, less insistent, more a reminder of the presence, the person waiting for him on the other side of that door. And Jace knew he had to open it and talk to the guy, even if only to assuage his fears before sending him away. He owed him that much.

So he dragged himself up again, wincing as the hurt made his breath rattle in his chest, and approached door like one would a poisonous and aggravated animal. At least, he was about as apprehensive about making contact.

The deadbolt rattled in his grip as he undid it. He had no idea why he had actually taken the effort to fasten it, it was about as bad quality as the door and looked like it would be rusted from the inside out. A good kick would do it in, a half-hearted one, even. But again, Jace had never been a guy to care for his personal safety.

Simon’s, though. Simon’s safety he would defend to his death.

And it was Simon’s face that stared back at him, ashen, slack-jawed, when he did (finally) swing the door open.

“What- what happened to you? Jace, oh my god, what-” And Simon forced himself in, not that Jace could offer much resistance, and pushed him back towards the bathroom. Jace saw his adam’s apple bob as soon as he set eyes on the state of the room, the wayward red smears, the paper towels scattered on the floor, in the general vicinity of the trash can. He hadn’t really felt the need to make sure he hit the can when he’d thrown them.

Simon’s hand found his way to his chest, then, and he pushed him gently towards the toilet seat. Jace let him; if only so he could feel the warmth of the boy’s palm through the thin cotton of his black shirt. It was always going to be black. It hides the bloodstains.

 

He sat, he heard the tap turning on, and then Simon was there again, kneeling in between his legs and grasping his chin ever so gently. He started dabbing at his split lip with the towel, to clean the blood that had at this point hardened and crusted. Jace watched, absent-minded, and couldn’t help but note that he had always pictured Simon between his legs in different contexts. Often, at that.

They hadn’t known each other for long - they met when Jace got that food truck job, tried to save up money to get away from his father. Simon had come by often enough, and talked for three through his mouthfuls of greasy meat, and he had made the summer heat a little more bearable with his presence. But they’d never ran into each other outside these heavy evenings, when the park was empty and Simon’s stomach more so. So, seeing him his like this, against a sharp backdrop of off-white ceramic, was disorienting, made him queasy and uneasy. He had no idea what to make of this.

Simon moved on to his cheeks, the traces of blood on his forehead, and then busied himself with his knuckles. There’d been antiseptic in Jace’s bag, but his hands had trembled too badly to apply it, still pent up and unsteady from the fight, the adrenaline and the pain and the blood dripping from his skin. But Simon’s hands were still but for the slight tremor running through them. Surprising, Jace thought, that he wasn’t freaking out at all. Surprising, but welcome. He looked down at brown curls, bobbing lightly as Simon took care of him.

 

“How did you find me?” He felt like he needed to ask this at least, if nothing else. He wanted to ask so many other things - Why are you here, why do you care, would you like to stay, would you like to kiss me, would it be alright for me to kiss you; but he didn’t. He couldn’t allow himself to overstep the boundaries he’d drawn for himself.

“Alec,” said Simon, attention focused on Jace’s right hand. There was a pause, silence, then: “He said you’d left, said you’d written him a message. He was worried. We both were. Izzy, too.” He looked up then, and his eyes stung like the antiseptic on his hands, accusatory, but worried in a way Jace had only seen two people in his life look at him.

There was a niggling feeling in Jace’s stomach, and he thought to himself, oh, this is bad.

 

Simon waited for a moment, little more than a heartbeat or two, before ducking his head and resuming his ministrations. Jace thought that it might help him breathe again, but Simon, with bowed head and hunched shoulders, kneeling in front of him wasn’t exactly a soothing sight.

Calm down, he told himself, don’t give in to the temptation to break your face against the doorframe.

He would, if it would get Simon to pay more attention to his wounds.

 

The steady hum of the AC and the occasional slosh of a bottle was all that filled the air between them. It was quiet, but not tense, not in the way silences at home were. Jace found he’d like to hear more silence, if he could hear it with Simon.

He had no idea when he’d fallen so hard.

Another few minutes, and a brief check from Simon, and he sat back. Jace couldn’t help but notice the way the air between them cooled, now that the other boy wasn’t so close anymore. It was still silent.

 

“What happened?” Simon asked, and it seemed to Jace that he’d been burning with that question for a while, now.

 

“Got in a fight,” said Jace, voice a bit gruff. He shrugged. “Some assholes wanted to start shit, so I gave them shit back.”

 

“No,” said Simon, quietly, as he picked on the label of the antiseptic bottle. “Why are you here?”

 

They locked eyes then, again; Simon was tense, and so was he, and the silence grew thick and heavy. Jace could barely feel the sting of the bruises anymore.

 

They sat there. Simon shifted, seemed to grow restless, as Jace was still finding his words.

 

“My father-” he got out, but then there was a hand on the base of his neck, and then there was warmth and Simon’s breath and his mouth and his teeth and Jace pressed back, gripped him, tugged at his hair as he poured all the energy he had left into this - it was barely a kiss, they were both clumsy and so obviously, painfully inexperienced - this press of lips against lips, into breathing and living and existing with Simon, and that was all that mattered.

 

They were in the bathroom of a backwater motel an hour away from home, bloodstains all over the place; Jace’s father would be waiting for him at home with fists and insults and a booming voice like thunder; he would have to let go, he would have to let Simon go, and leave to survive. He would have to push him away and go as far away as he could manage.

 

But today, he let Simon tug at his hair and mutter about his hygiene. Today, he let Simon crowd him towards the shower and he let himself take pleasure in undressing him, dragging him in with himself and kissing him under the wet stream as he pressed him against the wall. Today, he let Simon confess everything, and he let himself confess in return, and pour out his heart and give it to the boy for safe-keeping.

 

Tomorrow would be a different story.


End file.
